Amanda smiled, setting her glass down as the front door opened.
James stepped inside, slipping the key back into his pocket before closing the door behind him. Like the last time, he had arrived in an unremarkable rental car. He was dressed completely out of character—wearing a dark baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, a nondescript black jacket, and clear-framed glasses. He had taken the service stairs instead of the elevator to make sure no cameras or overly observant neighbors recognized him.
Amanda found the extreme secrecy thrilling, even though she hated the necessity of hiding.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the energy between them was intense, urgent, and fueled by a week of forced distance.
James threw the cap onto the console table. He didn't speak. He just crossed the entryway, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her off her feet.
Amanda laughed, wrapping her legs around his hips as he carried her toward the bedroom.
"I'm going to make you forget how angry you've been at me," James muttered roughly against her neck, his hands already pushing up the hem of her silk dress.
He threw her onto the mattress, following her down. He tore at her clothes, his mouth bruising and demanding. Amanda arched into him, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he drove his cock deep inside her.
***
The next morning, Amanda woke up to James shaking her shoulder violently.
"Amanda. Wake up."
She groaned, batting his hand away. She was exhausted, irritated, and still half-asleep. "What is wrong with you, James? It's too early."
"Amanda, get up!" James sounded genuinely alarmed. "Something is wrong with your hair."
Amanda blinked, her eyes heavy and confused. "What?"
"There is hair all over the bed," James said, stepping back from the mattress, his voice tight with panic.
Amanda sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. She thought he was being dramatic. She had thick, heavy hair; shedding was normal. "James, don't be stupid—"
Then she saw the sheets.
Long, dark pieces of her hair were everywhere. It wasn't just a few stray strands. It was thick, terrifying clumps. They covered her pillowcase. They trailed across the white blanket. They were tangled near the spot where James’s hand had rested.
Amanda’s blood turned to ice.
She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the hardwood floor, and sprinted to the master bathroom.
She braced her hands on the marble counter and looked into the mirror.
A ragged, horrified scream tore from her throat.
Her scalp had visible patches where the hair had simply come away. In some areas, the skin looked raw, red, and irritated. Other sections were thin, with jagged strands hanging unevenly like a frayed rope. The thick, glossy mane she spent thousands of dollars maintaining no longer looked like hers. It looked diseased.
Trembling uncontrollably, she raised her hand to her head.
She barely touched the remaining strands. They slid out of her scalp with zero resistance, falling into the sink like dead leaves.
She screamed again, louder this time.
James appeared in the doorway behind her.
Amanda looked at him through the mirror. She expected to see concern. She expected him to rush forward, hold her, and tell her everything would be okay.
But his expression was not loving.
It was horrified.
